


Healing Hands

by Severina



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-06-21
Updated: 2002-06-21
Packaged: 2017-10-10 05:23:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/96032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The boys, their friends, PFLAG, and baseball.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Healing Hands

**Author's Note:**

> Early Season Two  
> Written when God was a boy... (or about 2002-ish)

"Hot dogs! Ger yer fresh franks right heeeere!"

My head swivels in the direction of the booming voice, my arm thrusting into the air and waving violently as I search the stands for the braying vendor. "Over here!" I call out, and smile enthusiastically when the hawker spots me and nods in my direction before turning back to deal with a bunch of yahoos in the upper level. It'll be awhile before he gets down to me, but he won't forget. Meanwhile, I'm practically salivating. Baseball franks should definitely be one of the four major food groups.

"You're going to explode."

I glance across at Brian and snort at his matter-of-fact expression. "I'm a growing boy."

A firm hand creeps across my thigh to rest tauntingly against my groin. "Really?"

I feel the slight flush rise in my cheeks as I swat Brian's hand away, ignoring his devious chuckle as I surreptitiously check the crowd to see if anyone noticed his indiscretion. Thankfully, all of the PFLAG-ers in attendance seem to be engrossed in the game. I huff in his direction but that only makes him laugh a little louder. But he does slide his arm around my shoulder, his long fingers absently ruffling the hair at the back of my neck, and I really can't stay annoyed at him for very long. Not when he touches me like that. Not when he sneaks a grin at me when he thinks I'm not looking. Not when he's only here today because of me.

I don't know why I thought Deb's "day at the stadium" idea was so fantastic. It's not like I'm a baseball fan by any stretch of the imagination. And fuck, this game is really for shit. Pirates fans might be impressed by the pitching skill it takes for a no-hitter, but I'm bored out of my skull.

I steal another glance at Brian, who's now staring absently somewhere towards right field. If I'm bored out of my mind, I can hardly imagine how he feels right now. Yet here we are, sitting together, baking under the hot sun on a Saturday afternoon. And why? Because… because he knows I need him here. Don't get me wrong… I'm getting better. But large crowds can still tend to freak me out.

Just getting here today was an undertaking and a half. I was more excited than the event actually warranted, so I was a bit more bouncy than usual. "Bouncy" -- that's what Brian calls it. "High--spirited enthusiasm" is what I call it. So I insisted that we watch "Take Me Out To The Ball Game" last night instead of hitting Babylon -- what of it? So I went around the loft singing "O'Brien to Ryan to Gollllld-berg!" all morning -- it's a catchy tune.

Okay. Fuck. I admit it. I was bouncy. But shit, I hadn't been to a major league game since I was a kid. Back then, Dad would wrap an arm around my shoulders and conspiratorially whisper that we were going to have a "boys day out". We'd leave Mom and Molly at home and drive to the stadium. Dad would get a beer for himself, a soda and frank for me, and I'd have Dad all to myself for a few hours. We didn't do it often, but the memories of those times -- they're good memories. As lame as it sounds, I guess I was anticipating the same sort of thrill today.

I didn't expect the mass of people lined up at the turnstiles waiting to show their tickets to get in. I didn't expect the jostling crowds around the snack bars. I didn't expect the loud voices of the patrons or the shrill announcements over the PA system or the brush of countless bodies hustling to get around me or sometimes, it felt, through me. I started to freeze up, feeling my body shake and knowing it was stupid, it was silly, it was pointless… yet unable to stop it.

Then Brian was there. Well, he'd been there the whole time; I was clutching his arm so tightly that I was probably cutting off the circulation. But he saw what was happening to me and he just stopped. Just fucking stopped dead in the middle of the walkway. People all around us muttered in complaint and pushed and shoved to get by, and he ignored it all and just pulled me towards him and leaned down and kissed me. His hands framed my face as his lips brushed mine. Real soft. Gentle. I closed my eyes and lost myself in that kiss, forgetting where we stood, forgetting that this was a stadium filled with beer-guzzling breeders, forgetting that this wasn't Babylon or Woody's and that in this world, we were the ones who were 'different'. Then he leaned his forehead on mine and I knew that if I said I wanted to leave, he'd have turned around and led me out of there without a word of censure. But I couldn't do that. That would be admitting defeat, and that's just not me. So I took a deep breath and I smiled at him, and he smiled back, and everything seemed better somehow. The crowds weren't that terrible after all. I took his hand and we made our way to our seats.

I shake my head, pulling myself out of the memory and looking up just in time to see the hot dog soaring in my direction. Fuck. I'll never make the catch. I fumble in my seat, trying to twist around, but before I can do more than stretch out my arm, Brian's hand has whipped up to snag the flying frank. So much for him staring absently towards right field. He unceremoniously tosses the hot dog into my lap.

"Thanks."

He nods, his attention already back on the field as I raise my hips from the seat and begin digging around in my pockets. My questing fingers come up with a gum wrapper. A condom. And twenty-seven cents. Shit.

"Uhhh… Brian?"

He looks at me, then down to the meagre contents of my pockets, and then back to my face. An eyebrow raises. "Right now, Justin? All right, if you say so. But you don't have to pay me." With a smirk, he reaches for his zipper.

"Brian!" I shift in my seat, uncomfortably aware of the hot dog vendor standing impatiently at the far end of our row, waiting for his money to be passed along the line. This is not good. This is a world of not good. "I think I lost the rest of my money."

"I think you spent the rest of your money."

"I only had--"

"Two hotdogs, one corndog, tub of popcorn--"

"But I--"

"Soft pretzel, two drinks--"

"Okay, Okay!"

"And this is, what? The third inning?"

"Briaaan."

With an elaborate sigh, Brian reaches into his wallet and withdraws a five. He holds it teasingly just out of reach for a moment before allowing me to snatch it from his grasp.

"Don't say I never give you anything," he tells me. Like I ever say that about Brian. He's generous to a fault.

I hastily shove the crisp bill into the hand of the man sitting next to me and gesture to the vendor that the payment is on its way. Then I lean forward to kiss Brian's cheek, overlooking the eye-roll this earns me, and mischievously flick the condom against his chin. "At least you know I'm always prepared," I grin. "And I'll pay you back later."

"Yes, you will."

Our eyes meet and hold. Slow, lazy smiles drift into place. Brian's gaze sweeps slowly across my body and, not for the first time, the intensity of that look touches me like a caress. My body tingles wherever Brian's eyes linger, and I feel myself inching closer to him without any conscious effort on my part.

With a shaky breath, I turn my attention to the hot dog lying in my lap. I choose to ignore the calculating smile that plays across Brian's lips, and the devilish look in his eyes. This isn't the time or place for whatever plans that industrious mind is making. But I can't keep the smile off my face. The erotic images dancing through my brain are making it a little hard to concentrate, but I know two things. One: Justin Taylor is putty in the hands of Brian Kinney. It's not like that's any great secret. Two: Justin Taylor has also learned to sculpt like a master. Now that is the secret. And really, five dollars isn't much to pay back. Fuck, I'll have to do much better than that. There are a few ice cream sandwiches that I want to try out, after all.

* * * * *

"I'm bored."

I rotate my neck slowly, grimacing as I try without much success to ease the cramps in my shoulder blades and attempt to envision a suitably creative torture method for Deb. Who but Mikey's mother would call sitting in a cramped wooden seat in fucking one-thousand-degree weather surrounded by ill-bred, unruly, vacuous heteros a "good time"? Chinese water torture isn't strong enough punishment for this. I should talk to Dungeon Master Don.

And there's a fly buzzing at my ear.

"My back is killing me."

I stretch out my legs and hitch lower in my seat. My feet are now blocking the aisle, but fuck it. They can step over me if they want by me. I'm not moving.

"I wish I'd brought my sketchbook."

I scan the crowd, trying to amuse myself with a quick game of "spot the hidden fag." My internal radar's already gone off a couple of times. The redhead holding hands with the big-busted blonde in the upper level might as well have a neon sign blinking on his forehead. The only one he's fooling is his mother. And the blonde, apparently.

"Brian?"

Fingers appear before my eyes, waving in front of my designer shades. The fly has evidently grown tired of buzzing, and has now graduated to poking and prodding.

"Brian? You awake?"

Fuck. I turn with a bored expression plastered on my face. Not that I have to work at it. Bored is basically where I'm at right now.

"This was your idea, Sunshine," I remind him.

"It seemed like a good one at the time," Justin says, wrinkling his nose. "Now I'm just wishing--"

"That you'd ignored the lure of an 'enjoyable, fun-filled day at the stadium'," I mimic the wording from Deb's PFLAG invitation with a sneer, "and stayed home and let me fuck you senseless?"

Justin laughs. "Yeah, pretty much."

Well, no shit. I've got to remember to remind him of this next time he wants to attend some lame-ass GLC fundraiser or a theme party at Emmett's. Or, god forbid, a backyard barbeque with the munchers. One of those is enough to last any man a lifetime.

Justin shifts in his seat, resting his head on my shoulder and looking up at me through lowered lashes. He licks his lips, in case I've suddenly become mentally handicapped and haven't caught on to his intentions.

"Maybe we could sneak out early?" he practically purrs, leaning up to plant a kiss along my jaw line.

Shit, he can be a brazen little fucker when he wants to be. For a moment I'm very tempted to throw him back in the chair and give the breeders something to stare at. Instead I snort, gesturing languidly towards Deb. I'm on the receiving end of enough lectures from the woman; I'm certainly not going to ask for another by slinking out like a kid after promising to attend. And promising to ensure that Justin had a good time.

"I like my balls just where they are, Justin."

"Hmmm. Me too."

He settles back in his seat and closes his eyes, a slight smile on his lips. And I want to lean forward and take those lips, press them against mine, feel them give beneath the gentle pressure of my own, let my tongue snake inside that sweet warmth. I want to run my hands along his skin and feel him shudder at my touch. I want to feel his body against mine as we move together.

I let my hand drift to his hair, enjoying the feel of the soft strands against my fingertips. He moves his head, giving me greater access… and I pull my hand away and grip the arm of my chair instead. Grit my teeth. And pray for rain, so we can get the fuck out of here.

* * * * *

I'm drifting in the zone, that lazy warm place between waking and sleep. I can hear the chatter of the people in the stands surrounding me, but it's a distant chatter. All in all, I feel content. My feet rest on the seatback in front of me, my hands are folded comfortably on my stomach, and Brian is at my side being amazingly well behaved. To be honest, that last part is a little disappointing. I figured that at the very least I'd be dragged into the bathroom at some point. A little exercise to work off all that food, of course. But I guess Brian took Deb's warning to heart. Oh, he thinks I don't know that she put the onus of my good time on his head. I love these people, but sometimes I think they take one look at the blonde hair and the blue eyes and figure that I'm a complete imbecile.

The rumble of a buzzsaw momentarily intrudes on my peace, and I cock my head and focus on the sound. The buzzsaw morphs into the unmistakable ruffle-and-snort of a snore. Ted. If my eyes were open, I'd roll them. Ted can fall asleep anywhere. Sometimes I almost envy the guy. I'm tempted to see if Michael and Ben are still holding hands and sneaking kisses when they think no one is looking, but checking it out just seems like too much effort.

"Having fun, Sunshine?"

I stifle the groan that wants to emerge at Deb's cheery voice, and crack an eyelid to see her smiling down at me.

"He's simply enthralled, Deb. Can't you tell?"

I aim an elbow haphazardly at Brian's side and pull myself into a sitting position, smiling at the woman. "Ignore him, Deb. It's been a great day. You did an incredible job pulling this together."

I mean it, too. Who else but Debbie Novotny could get fifty fashion-conscious queers and their families to forsake all Saturday afternoon plans in favour of sitting under the blazing sun and indulging in the other favourite national pastime?

She smiles back. "I did, didn't I?" She buffs her nails on her Pirates jersey and effects an air of superiority before breaking into a raucous laugh that's so infectious that I have to join in. She shifts her tub of popcorn into the crook of her arm and reaches across Brian to pat my cheek. It's totally infantile, yet endearing at the same time. Deb's pats always convey her love. Of course, so do her slaps.

"You enjoy the rest of the day, Sunshine," she tells me before heading back to her seat a few rows down. Actually, you might even say she bounces back to her seat. I wonder if she's ever seen "Take Me Out To The Ball Game"?

I turn to see Brian regarding me with an bemused expression. Now, I could get into a discussion about how it doesn't matter that I'm not really into the baseball game. I could explain that what makes me content is simply being at this venue with my friends, the people I think of as family. I could make it clear that having Brian with me today is a big part of what makes this day so special. Or I could just stick out my tongue.

I choose the latter.

He snorts out a laugh and settles back into his seat, closing his eyes. His shades have migrated from his eyes to the front of his muscle shirt sometime in the last twenty minutes. I allow myself a moment to watch him before leaning forward and resting my elbows on my knees. I steal a glance at the scoreboard and see that it's still a no-hitter. I didn't miss much -- no, I didn't miss anything -- during my zoning time. I try to focus on the game. I even consider searching out my program to find out who's going up to bat. But the program -- the one that I insisted we had to buy -- is… well… I'm not sure where it is. So instead, I concentrate on the guy's ass. Not half bad.

* * * * *

Fifteen minutes later, Not Half Bad has struck out. Flat Ass has struck out. Pleasantly Plump is up to bat, and my eyes are glazing over despite my best efforts. I squint into the sun, willing myself to pay attention as Pleasantly Plump wiggles his butt next to home plate. I find myself wondering just how he manages to squeeze those thunder thighs into his uniform. I've got some decidedly wicked ideas on how to help him out with that. My amusing mental diversion is sidetracked when the guy actually connects with the fucking ball. About fucking time. The loud *Thwap* of wood hitting rawhide fills the stadium…

… and I'm falling backwards into my seat. Can't breathe. On some level of awareness I know that the crowd has risen to its feet. Can't breathe. The shouts of the fans should be rocketing through my head, but everything is muted and hushed, a white noise that I can't define. Can't breathe. The sound of the bat striking the ball plays over and over in my head and my arm flails out wildly and I can't breathe, can't breathe, can't fucking breathe…

Then a firm hand is on my arm, steadying me. I gasp, pulling in a great draught of air to my starving lungs. Another. Another. It fucking hurts. The outside world comes crashing back in a roar of sound and I wince, wanting to cover my ears with my hands but my body won't seem to obey the dictates of my brain. Brian's mouth is moving… I think he's saying my name… but I can't hear anything but a muddled snarl of noise. I squinch my eyes closed, feel the moisture on my cheeks, and can't even think to blink away the tears because having my eyes closed has made it worse, so much worse, and now I see the bat flying towards my head, now I hear Brian crying my name, now I hear the solid thunk as the wood connects with my skull, and it's worse, so much worse, so much worse than Gus's party, because now I have stereo surround sound to match the Technicolour, and fuck, fuck, it's so much worse…

I feel myself being pulled from my seat from some great distance, like I'm a marionette on over-sized strings. Then Brian's hand is at the nape of my neck and he's pressing me into his chest and… it's a little better. I feel his breath on my forehead, know he's murmuring something, something soothing, something calming, and… it's a little better. I force my eyes open, my gaze connecting only with the thread count of his wife-beater. His arm wraps around my waist and then we're moving. His hand is warm and strong on my hip. I keep my head down and try to concentrate, concentrate on the solid presence of Brian at my side, the line of his body pressed against mine and… it's a little better. Concentrate on the steps. One step at a time. Know I'm clutching his side so tightly it's going to leave bruises, but can't let go. Can't let go. Fuck Brian, don't let go.

We're on the concourse by the time my stomach starts to heave. I barely have time to mumble an incoherent "oh fuck" before I'm doubled over. Again, I seem to watch from a distance as I spew the contents of my stomach onto the grey concrete. And while part of me is disgusted and part of me is simply glad to be floating above it all, another part notes that the vomit has splattered onto Brian's Prada boots -- only Brian Kinney would wear five-hundred-dollar boots to a fucking baseball stadium -- and notices that he doesn't jump back, that his arm merely tightens around my waist, that his hand strokes my back… that he doesn't seem to give a shit about his boots.

I straighten slowly, my hand finding the bare brick of the wall and using it to steady myself. The world flips once, twice, before settling into place. Brian is watching me with concern, so I take a deep breath and try to give him a look of reassurance. The deep breath is a bad move. The scent of regurgitated food is never a good thing. My stomach cartwheels again, but this time I manage to swallow back the rising bile.

"Better?"

I nod, not yet trusting myself to speak. He looks into my eyes, seems to make a decision, and strengthens his hold on my waist. I only realize it then -- he never let go. He tugs gently and we resume walking, my eyes never leaving the ground. Before I know it, the concrete floor gives way to sun-dappled pavement.

Brian dips a finger under my chin, raising my eyes to his. "You okay?"

"I'm… I'll be alright." The words are forced from my throat like sandpaper on glass.

I find myself moving backwards, gently propelled toward the outer wall of PNC Park. When the wall of the solid structure is at my back, Brian presses lightly at my shoulder. The warmth of his hand radiates through the thin cotton of my Tee-shirt, a soothing warmth, a comforting warmth, and I try to concentrate on the sensation of his palm against my body, the slender fingers resting softly on my neck, and not the sound of the bat as it whistled through the air, not the sound of the unyielding wood as it crashed into my forehead…

"Just wait here. I'll bring the jeep around--"

"NO!" I don't realize I've shouted the word until it's escaped my lips. "No… Brian… don't…" The heat of the sun should be warming my skin, but I find myself shivering uncontrollably. I feel needy and childish and fuck it, I don't care. "Please don't leave me."

His eyes widen slightly before he pulls me into his embrace, his hand smoothing over my back in long strokes. My hands, unknowingly curled into fists, relax as I lean into his forceful grip. My arms encircle his waist as his lips find my forehead, the corner of my eye, the locks of my hair. And… it's a little better. Fuck Brian, don't ever let go.

He pulls away slightly, leaning back to search my eyes. I guess whatever he sees satisfies him, because he steps back and replaces his arm around my waist. "We're going to walk to the jeep," he tells me, like I'm not sure where the fuck we were going, but I'm so thankful he's not going to leave me alone that I don't give a shit that he's now treating me like I'm a three-year-old. I'm just grateful that Brian refused to travel to the stadium in the "fagmobile", the oh-so-charming term he gave to Deb's rented school bus. So I let him lead me across the parking lot, also gratified that he is there to take charge because if he wasn't, I know I'd be a blubbering mess lying on the ground somewhere right now. I let him lead me because it's what he does best. I let him lead me because I trust him with my body, my health, my soul and my heart.

Don't ever let go, Brian. Please, don't ever let go.

* * * * * 

By the time we make it halfway across the parking lot, Justin's heartbeat has slowed to some extent. He's no longer breathing like a thoroughbred after a 2K race, but his body is still racked with shivers and his sweat-soaked brow is furrowed. He keeps his attention focused on the ground and I keep my attention focused on him, and together we reach the jeep without further incident. It's only when I push back the front seat and gesture for him to get into the back that he hesitates, raising his face to mine. I find my jaw clenching at what I see in his eyes. Uncertainty. Reluctance. Fear? Shit. Does he think… he can't think… that I want to fuck him… that I would fuck him… like this? He can't think… that…

Fuck.

"Justin." His gaze lifts from where it's drifted to the open car door. I raise my hand, slowly, so slowly, letting my fingers caress the baby-soft skin of his cheek. He closes his eyes, leaning into the touch, the breath leaving his lungs in a rush.

"Justin," I say again, keeping my voice steady, letting my hand drop from his face, and he opens his eyes. I take a deep breath, willing him to look at me. Look at me, Justin. I will not fuck this up. Look at me. Fucking look at me.

He looks at me.

I hold out my hand as I take a step backwards. "Come with me."

He immediately slips his hand into mine. My fingers curl around his, clutching hard, perhaps harder than I intended, and my eyes close briefly and a soft sigh of relief parts my lips as I tug him with me toward the jeep. I fold my body into the tiny back seat, resting my back against the door, bending one knee across the seat while the other dangles… not the most comfortable position in the world, but in this jeep I've been contorted a lot worse… and then I gently pull Justin against me. His looks into my eyes for a long moment before his head falls down to rest on my chest, his legs curled beneath him in the crook of my body… his spine stiff and unbending… his hands clenched into fists against my waist… and then I feel his body give against me. He relaxes into my embrace, his hands rest easily on my hips, he shifts against me so that the top of his head fits under my chin, and I press a kiss to his golden hair and close my eyes and try not to think.

Try to concentrate on stroking my hands along his back. Try to concentrate on his breathing, slower now, calmer now. Try to concentrate on the way the sunlight falls through the window, lighting him like an impressionist painting, like a priceless porcelain statue… like an angel under a streetlamp.

I press my lips together and close my eyes and push back the ache that starts in my chest and builds until I want to scream.

Just breathe. Breathe in the scent of him. Butter and onions and sugar and mint and smoke and it's the best combination of aromas I could ever name, the best perfume I could ever market.

Just breathe, and let my hands wander across the planes of his back, the rounded contours of his shoulders, the nape of his neck, and feel him settle more firmly against me, feel his chest rise and fall, rise and fall, rise and fall…

I'll just breathe… and hold on tight.


End file.
